Phantom Chasing Phantoms...

[Tearen Wover]

Gerald P. Howards was a simple man. He didn't expect much of the world, though it rarely offered him the same kind of grace. Gerald was good at his maths, but not phenomenal. In most parts of the Omniverse this would make him rather unremarkable, but on the scarcely literate island of Blue Flame, it was quite the valuable skill. Despite their less the reputable business practices, smugglers and pirates were quite fastidious when it came to keeping track of their riches. After all, it was so easy for thievery and other underhanded betrayals to be perpetrated in these parts, so when Gerald first moved to Blue Flame after a notably unremarkable career on Costa Del Sol, he had anticipated an easy life of usefulness and lucrative work. Of course he had heard of the rumors regarding the port of Bilgewater; that it was a hive of scum and villainy. When he had first set out to the island, however, he had been rather optimistic as to the prospects of his security. Daring, perhaps, was the way he had justified it at the time. Some strange aberration of a mid life crisis. But instead of taking out an unfair loan for a brand new swoop bike, he had decided to go live amongst thieves and brigands. Oh yes of course, the first few months living in the simple lifestyle of the island had been magnificent. He had found work at the docks quickly, and though thugs and brigands occasionally targeted him for an evening's mugging, he had been quite happy.

It wasn't until the name Leto Natrian had come across his shipping ledger that things had taken a turn for the worst. The pirate lord was scum, through and through. A corpulent, abrasive fellow who stank deeply of personal odors and liquor. Every week Leto would skulk into Gerald's office and stand over the book keeper's shoulder, breathing wetly, as Gerald set about changing not only Leto's shipping logs, but the shipping logs of other smugglers and merchants as well. All of this was done, of course, at gunpoint. Gerald quickly developed a deep hatred for the fat, smug businessman and his entire operation. Once other merchants found out that Gerald was fixing their numbers, they had quickly moved on to other accountants, for fear of being caught up in Leto's twisted, aggressive business acumen.

The only time when Gerald felt safe was when he was here at home in his little graystone port house, overlooking the gently flickering ships lanterns in the bay and the stars farther out in the sky itself. A pleasant breeze was wafting in through the window as he sat in quiet serenity, sipping his tea. His gaunt frame was dressed only in an aging pair of knickerbockers, and he sat in a plush rocking chair, arguably his prized possession. Just as the man was thinking of going back to bed, however, there came a slight creaking noise. He knew it came from the shutters at the rear end of the small bedroom; they often blew open when a squall passed over Blue Flame island. It was curious that they would pry themselves open in the absence of a strong wind, but there were far stranger things to be seen in the Omniverse. The gray haired book keeper eased himself up out of the plush rocker and gently padded over to the rear window, closing it and making sure that the latch was secure. Nodding to himself, Gerald turned around and threw open the sheet of his bed. Hairs stood up on the back of his sun spotted neck as he heard the latch undo itself and the rear shutters creak open once more. With a gulp of fear, the book keeper turned slowly to regard the mysteriously open aperture, expecting to see some red-eyed devil standing on the sill. There was no such thing. Yet another quiet moment passed, and just as Gerald was about to cross the room once more to shut the blasted things, a thick, black smog began to roll up and over the window frame.

This was no mere cook-fire haze, nor patch of coal smoke. The roiling cloud had a life of its own, defying the ambient cross breeze of the second story bedroom and rolling steadily towards Gerald. With just a small gasp of terror, the book keeper fled down the staircase, into the parlor, and out into the narrow foyer, decorated with various etchings of ships both Imperial and colonial. He could hear foot steps now, loud, solid footsteps slowly pacing their way down those same steps he had traversed just seconds prior. Breathing with deep, frenzied sucks, Gerald tried the knob on the front door, pulling sharply, but it was to no avail. Shocked, the aging man peered through the looking hole. By Omni, there was someone out there! Someone holding the door shut with all of their might!

In a flight of panic, Gerald launched to his left into the dining room, catching a glimpse of bright, acidic green out of the corner of his eye, right behind him. Fearing fully for his life, the book keeper made for the back door, through the kitchen. Stumbling in the darkness, there was a clattering of pots and pans as he tore through the blackened room. With a long, drawn out groan of relief and still pulsing hysteria, Gerald sprinted to his salvation, only to suddenly find that his feet had no traction. He was in the air! The wind was knocked from his heaving lungs as he was slammed against the ceiling of the kitchen and held there by some eldritch force better left unconsidered. Gerald turned his head to the left and squeezed his eyes shut, listening as his glasses clattered to the ground far below.

"Please! Oh please, please! Whatever...whatever you may be I don't...I cah...I can't..."

In that next instant, Gerald's jaw was gripped by something...terrible. The shape of the gripping appendage was human, with four fingers and a thumb, but it was cold. Colder than the newest ice on the caps of the Frozen Fields. And the skin, it was slick and hard, like polished stone. Despite his straining neck muscles, Gerald's face was slowly turned so as to gaze into the eyes...the three eyes...of his pursuer. Gripped by the dread that ran thick through his chilled veins, Gerald was speechless. What could be said? There came a numb sort of tickle from inside his head, as flashes of memories of his books and Leto Natrian flashed through his minds eye, like someone was leafing through pages of his mind. The three eyed devil...it was in his head. He watched as his own tears dripped onto its completely smooth, black face, rolling over those noisome green eyes like they were but painted, phosphorescent effigies.

There was no need for this to be so difficult.

Gerald didn't know where the words had come from. Had it been a thought of his own or whisperings of a voice whose owner he refused to comprehend? The questions would not be answered, as Gerald's quivering, shock ridden body was lowered gently back to the ground. There the book keeper collapsed and gripped the cold cobblestone, the foundation of the building the only thing that could ground him to the world he once had accepted as reality. By the time Gerald dared to sit up and look around, the blessed sun was kissing his face from the small kitchen window, and the thing...that...thing...was gone. No trace of it remained in the slightest. Even the latch on the shutters was neatly in place, upon inspection. With no other recourse, Gerald Howards sank into the warm, inviting arms of his plush rocking chair and resumed sipping his tea, which out of some hellish gesture of conciliation, was still steaming warm...